Once again, I’m surprised that he seems to know me better than I realized. I mean, I guess he couldn’t miss the pints of Ben & Jerry’s piling up in the freezer, or my own Olivia Rodrigo playlist on repeat. But he’s not poking fun at my misery like Owen does. He seems to understand that I’ve really been struggling. And that means a lot right now.
“I know I haven’t exactly been easy to live with,” I say. “And I’m not sure I ever told you how much I appreciate you letting me stay here until I get back on my feet.” I trace a line of thread on the throw pillow with my finger. “If it weren’t for you, I would’ve blown through my meager savings by now. And I guess I’m still foolish enough to hope that someday I’ll get to use it to open my own bakery.”
“Why is that foolish?” He shifts his body in my direction.
“I don’t know. Maybe I should have gone to college. I could have an actual career right now, like Owen does.”
“Now you sound like your parents,” Jacob says. He’s sat through enough Thatcher family dinners to know Owen is the golden boy with his 4.0 GPA and his computer science degrees, while I’m the black sheep who barely scraped by with Cs. By the age of sixteen, I could craft a quadruple layer cake with lemon curd filling and vanilla fondant flowers worthy of the Great British Bake Off. But maybe I should have tried harder in school. Buttercream frosting was never going to impress my college-professor parents.
“Maybe they’re right.” I shrug. “I mean, I’m thirty years old.”
Jacob squints at me. “Wait, Owen and I are thirty. I thought you were thirty-one.”
I throw my hands in the air. “Jesus, Jacob, kick a girl when she’s down, why don’t you?”
His shoulders shake again, and it brings me unexpected pleasure. He’s usually so serious and reserved, so judging, it feels like a victory to make him laugh.
“My point,” I continue, “is that I’m too old for this. I’m too old to let my big mouth ruin my career and my relationships.”
He considers that for a minute, regarding me across the couch cushions. “Nobody ever picked on Owen and me when we were kids,” he finally says.
I look at him sideways. Where is he going with this?
“Because everyone in school knew you’d kick their ass if they tried.” He gives me a lopsided smile.
I breathe out a tiny laugh. “I would have.”
Jacob’s dark eyes roam over me, his expression unreadable. “I wish you could see yourself the way I do. Because I don’t see someone with a big mouth.” In the dim lamplight, the two of us here with only this narrow space between us feels suddenly intimate. “I see someone who stands up to bullies. Who doesn’t let bigger, more powerful people get away with treating someone badly.”
And with that, the burning in the back of my throat is back. I look down at my hands.
He leans in. “If someone doesn’t appreciate that… Well, they don’t deserve you.”
Is this… Jacob… I’m talking to? For once in my life, I am speechless.
And then suddenly, the world outside of Jacob’s quiet apartment erupts into pandemonium. Pots and pans clang, noisemakers trumpet, and dozens of voices burst into cheers on the street below. From our view on the tenth floor, fireworks glitter and explode over the East River.
We sit up to gaze out at the city’s celebration at the exact same time, and we’re not at our own ends of the couch anymore, but sharing the middle cushion. I’m hyperaware of the heat radiating from him as my shoulder accidently brushes his.
“I guess it’s midnight,” I murmur.
“I guess so.” He turns his head toward me, and our eyes lock. And… Oh my. I remember there’s a way people traditionally ring in the New Year.
Does Jacob want me to kiss him? And more importantly—Am I really thinking about kissing Jacob?
“So, should we do something to mark the occasion?” I ask, my voice like fluffy meringue. “Goodbye, terrible year! Maybe high-five? Or we could bang some pots and pans? Or—” Did I mention I babble when I’m nervous? And in this moment, Jacob Gray is making me extremely nervous. “If you know the words to ‘Auld Lang Syne’ we could sing—”
“Sadie.” Mercifully, Jacob cuts me off. “Do you want to high-five? Or”—his mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile—“sing ‘Auld Lang Syne’？”
I bite my lip. “Not really.”
“How about this instead?” Jacob takes me gently by the shoulders. “Happy New Year.” He leans in, pressing a kiss to my cheek, and his lips are soft, and cool against my flushed face. He hesitates, and the roughness of his razor stubble brushes my jaw. Before I can overthink it, I slide my hand up to his chest and grasp a handful of his T-shirt. He freezes, mouth inches away, eyes searching mine. I reach up to slowly pull off his glasses and set them on the back of the couch.
“Happy New Year, Jacob,” I murmur. And then I kiss him, tilting my head for better access to his mouth, coaxing it open to slide my tongue against his. Jacob plunges one hand into my hair and wraps the other around my waist, shifting until I’m pressed back against the arm of the couch. He leans over me, bending down to kiss my lips, my cheek, my neck. And then he’s back to my mouth again, and oh my God, he’s so good at this. How is he so good at this? How did I go all this time without noticing these broad shoulders and solid arms and those gorgeous musician’s hands that are currently playing a concerto across my burning skin? I pull him closer and—
Somewhere far away, a key jiggles in a lock. A door creaks open and slams shut. And then, from down the hall, a horrible, irritating male voice calls out, “Yo, Jake!”
Chapter 4
I give Jacob’s chest a hard shove and struggle to sit up. “It’s Owen.”
“Shit.” Jacob dives to the other side of the couch, grabbing his glasses and flinging them on his face. He glances at me, reaches over to tug my dress back down over my knees, and then shifts his body so he’s facing forward, legs crossed casually in front of him.
My brother strolls into the room, bypassing the two of us on the couch and heading for the kitchen where he opens the fridge and grabs a beer. “You ready to go, dude?”
“Uhhh…，” Jacob says, straightening his glasses again.
Owen wanders back into the living room and plunks himself down on the piano bench across from us. “Interesting outfit, Sadie. What’s that powder in your hair?”
I try not to be irritated with my brother for strolling in like he lives here. Jacob and Owen have twenty-five years of history, dating all the way back to kindergarten. After high school, they both attended college in Boston—Owen at MIT and Jacob at Berklee College of Music—then moved to New York together. Owen has a key to Jacob’s place and lets himself in because Jacob is usually absorbed in his mixing board with headphones glued to his ears. It’s never bothered me when Owen showed up unannounced before, but then again, I was never making out with his best friend before.
I flush at the memory but play it off as indignation over his comments about my outfit. “None of your beeswax,” I say, showing off my maturity where my brother is concerned. “What are you doing here?”